


The Value of a Tailored Suit

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 12:18:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2387987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is fluff, indirectly inspired by Rehfan's "Diamonds on the Soles of their Shoes," posted earlier last night. Refan knows suits are NOT to be washed in washers and dryers...but because she knew, I found myself tempted to ruin one of Mycroft's beautiful suits.</p><p>It is not precisely suit porn, as I kill that poor suit quite completely. But it would not hurt so much were Mycroft's suits not so gorgeous. </p><p>As for Lestrade's far less spiffy suits, I have been practical but cruel and explained at least part of his lapse by letting him own very real Marks and Spencer wash-and-dry suits. No particular insult meant to Marks and Spencer.  But I'd be willing to bet no dandy worth his salt buys a wash-and-wear suit. Period.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Value of a Tailored Suit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rehfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Diamonds on the Soles of their Shoes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2383124) by [Rehfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan). 



If only it hadn’t been so late.

If only they’d gone to his own place, where there was no washer and he sent everything out to be washed and dry cleaned.

If only he’d turned on the lights in Mycroft’s utility room.

If only he hadn’t been sick as a dog, light-headed with fever, staggering with delayed shock.

If only he didn’t live in cheap suits that could actually be thrown in the washer and dryer. Suits he got for under £100.

Lestrade gazed into the dryer in horrified dismay. He reached out gingerly, and prodded the dense, crinkled lump of felted wool. It was hard, and rather stiff, and hairy. The fine line of peacock-blue silk thread woven through the formerly beautiful sand-brown tweed rose up here and there, forlorn against the wreckage of what had once been a stunning jacket.

The trousers, the waistcoat….ruined. All ruined.

How the bloody hell did I do that? Lestrade wondered.

He knew better, even if he did live in cheap wash-and-wear. He was an adult—at least for a certain value of adulthood. Bespoke suits like Mycroft’s were not something you dumped into the washer and dryer. They demanded cleaners—or skilled valets who knew the fine and holy art of maintaining tailored works of art. Valets with little bottles of this cleaning agent and that. Valets with brushes and powders and picks and combs. Valets who could reweave the tiniest tear and smooth away the nastiest snag in the expensive wool suiting. Valets who could, if necessary, do a superb job of interim tailoring, tacking down linings and batting that had come adrift, subtly reshaping the carefully managed curve of a lapel.

You could wash a suit yourself, he knew, if you absolutely had to. He’d never absolutely had to, and he’d have cut his throat before he’d have tried it with one of Mycroft Holmes’ wardrobe. He knew it involved occult things like having the right kind of soap—NOT detergent—and handling it all just-so, and letting it dry on toweling and even on forms, and finishing up with a professional grade steam iron. Hell, brain-surgery was probably easier…

Lestrade reached into the dryer and began withdrawing the revolting remains.

The suit had shrunk. No. Parts of the suit had shrunk—the wool parts. The bits of linen and cotton and woven horse-hair and synthetics that added weight, or shaped curves, or stiffened structural elements? Not so much. There were wads of batting hanging out, half-riipped from the jacket as a result of the tumble action. He touched the buttons…the remains of the buttons. They’d been hand-crafted bull’s hide—dark and glossy once. Now they were damp, wizened little lumps.

It had been such a bad night last night. Technically he supposed he should be grateful he and Mycroft and Sherlock and John had walked away living and intact, more or less. But the bust had gone bad, the arms dealers had skived off with the evidence, the terror cell had got clear without being identified—and in the process Mycroft had been knocked arsey-versy off a raised loading platform down into a good three-inch accumulation of mud, petrol, machine oil, and ick. All sorts of ick. All four of them—Sherlock and John and Mycroft and Lestrade—were running hellacious colds they’d picked up earlier in the week during planning meetings from one of the analysts in surveillance. And then some idiot in the special forces group had panicked and tossed tear gas into the narrow little alley…

Even now, Lestrade could feel the lingering pain in his eyes, and nose, and throat. Last night?

He’d dragged Mycroft to A&E, John chittering on one side and Sherlock huffing and insisting Mycroft was just too lazy and spoiled to take “a bit of rough and tumble.”

The doctors at the A&E declared the “rough and tumble” to have resulted in a chipped kneecap, a badly sprained wrist and shoulder, bruised ribs, and a concussion severe enough that they wanted to keep Mycroft overnight.

Mycroft had been unwilling.

That was the polite word for it. There were far ruder words, but in the mood Mycroft was in Lestrade hadn’t felt safe voicing them.

“I’m going home!” Mycroft had announced. The man had been tense, and shocky, and to Lestrade he’d seemed just short of the kind of rage that bursts out in people who’ve tried a bit too long to be a bit too civilized, and who have no remaining reserves of patience or calm to draw on any more.

“You don’t understand, you need supervision,” the examining doctor had said. The poor man was uneasy, and no wonder—Lestrade was almost certain the man had got wind of Mycroft’s real status in the world, and Doctor Brigham couldn’t have been any more stressed if he’d found himself taking care of Queen Elizabeth or baby Prince George. “You’ve had a very bad hit on the head.”

“I fell off a loading dock,” Mycroft had snapped. “It was an accident, not an assault. I’ll be fine with a bit of rest.”

“But someone should be there to keep an eye on you.”

Lestrade had grabbed John’s elbow, fingers digging tight into woolly jumper. “Does he need to be in hospital, or can anyone keep an eye on him?” he’d hissed.

John had gone all sober and responsible and  professional and had been about to bore Lestrade stupid, so Lestrade cut him off, saying more tersely than perhaps was kind, “Can Sherlock bloody do it? Mycroft could go to Baker Street.”

John frowned, and mumbled, and said, “Sherlock could. Not that he would.”

“Your house, then? Mary’s a nurse.”

John’s eyes were flat and unkind, and the bloodshot veins from exposure to the tear gas stood out. “Mycroft. In my house. With Mary. And the baby. And me. What part of living hell don’t you see in this idea?”

“Someone’s got to offer,” Lestrade snapped. “If we don’t get him out of here he’s going to chew the throat out of the next nurse or orderly who comes in range of his fangs.”

“He’s not a rabid Doberman.”

Lestrade looked over his shoulder, to where the “British Government” stood quivering with barely suppressed end-of-the-road fury. His beautiful suit was covered in grease and dirt and things that should remain unnamed. He had the jacket, waistcoat, and shirt over one arm. He’d had to strip down to his vest to get his shoulder and arm taped. His eyes seeped tears from the gas, his face was mottled likewise. He had a cough—but they all did. Colds plus gas…

Perfect. Just perfect.

“You can stay at my place,” Lestrade said, already hating himself for the words. Mycroft Holmes happy and chipper would have been a challenging guest. Mycroft Holmes tired and cranky and sick and in pain? What was he thinking.

“Impossible,” Mycroft grumbled. “I can just go home.”

“I could go with you,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft blinked his sore red eyes, thought about it—and wilted with a kind of weary resignation. “I suppose,” he said, voice suddenly weak and shaky. “I’ve got a guest room. If you insist on coming I can at least make you comfortable.”

Another understatement, Lestrade thought as he spread out the remains of the suit. Mycroft had arranged a ride over, and he’d found spare night clothes for Lestrade, and a tooth brush, and a face flannel and towels, and he’d shown Lestrade the utility room, and the guest room, and then Mycroft had turned off the lights in both and they’d returned to the sitting room, where Mycroft had poured them very large glasses of very fine aged scotch, and the two had settled into deep chairs in front of an elegant little close fireplace, and they had bitched.

Oh, God, they had bitched. They had bitched about idiots with gas grenades who panicked and idiot special forces who couldn’t catch even one fleeing terrorist, much less the arms dealers, and they had bitched about whoever set up the loading platform without a railing, and they’d bitched about hospitals, and about having colds, and about their stupid, thankless jobs, and about the paperwork the night was going to generate, and about the embarrassment of going to all that trouble and earning nothing for their pains but injuries—and not even good enough injuries to earn them any sympathy.  They had mutually bitched about the fact that there was frozen curry somewhere in the household stores, but Mycroft didn’t know which freezer—the kitchen freezer or the pantry reserve—and neither Mycroft nor Lestrade were at that point sober enough to locate the correct container, much less microwave it without risking blowing the kitchen up.

“You’ve got to change,” Lestrade said, as they staggered from the kitchen. “You’re all dirty. Can’t go to bed dirty.”

Mycroft, drunk, had growled, “That’s what you think. I assure you, I’ve gone to bed very, very dirty on occasion.” Then he’d broken out coughing from the irritation of the gas, and from the cold, and from trying to pitch his voice down low enough to sound sexy.

Lestrade had given a formless, sloppy giggle, and swatted his friend before frowning and thumping him on the back. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Mycroft had snapped. “I’ve got the bloody flu, same as all of us.” Then, more politely, “Could you stop beating me like a drum? I can’t tell where the thump starts and the cough takes over.”

“Sorry,” Lestrade said. “Sorry. Come ‘ere. Got to get you set up for the night.”

“What if I don’t want to get set up?”

“Doesn’ ma’er. I’m tired. Going to bed. Can’t go to bed till you’re in bed, ‘cause if you’re not in bed I can’t get up to check you.”

“That’s all right. I’ll check you,” Mycroft said, sounding as though that were a perfectly reasonable alternative.

“No—you’re the one wi’ a concussion. I’m the one ‘ere to keep ‘n eye on you. So I got to make sure you get out of those clothes and get to bed.”

Mycroft had whined.

“You’re as bad as Sherlock!”

“Am not!” Mycroft said, absently wandering around the sitting room shedding bits of clothing as he went. The jacket and waistcoat and shirt had been on the back of the sofa—Lestrade, was sure of that. The knit sleeveless vest had fallen on the coffee table. The trousers dropped to Mycroft’s ankles as he wandered past the armchairs by the fire, but could go no farther than there because he’d forgot to take off his shoes.

“Oh,” he said, frowning down, one and holding the glass of scotch high as though he were about to raise a toast. “Oh.”

“You’re stuck,” Lestrade observed.

“I think you’re right,” Mycroft said. “Well-spotted!” He thought some as he looked down. After a few moments he said, dreamily, “It can be solved. QED.” Then he took another sip of his scotch and said, querulously, “I can’t move.”

“Sit on the arm of the chair,” Lestrade said. “I’ll help you outta your pants.”

“You’re not going to depants me!” Mcyroft said, and giggled, high and a bit hysterical. Then the coughing started again, and he did collapse down onto the arm of the chair, long legs in front of him, cock dangling, face bewildered and miserable.

“Just lemme get these off you,” Lestrade said, gently, squatting down. He put his own drink on the floor. Then he untied Mycroft’s shoes, one at a time, eased them off his long, narrow feet, slipped the socks off, and removed the bunched trousers and boxers. “There,” he said, softly. “Go get into your jammies, yeah? I’ll take these to the hamper.”

“Mmmmm….” Mycroft said. Then, a bit wistfully, he added, “You’re quite lovely. You’d make a grand nanny.” At that he wandered toward the master bedroom, humming “Spoon Full of Sugar” from Mar Poppins.

Lestrade had smiled, gathered all Mcyroft’s clothes, wobbled his drunken way to the utility room, and dropped the clothes in the hamper. Then he’d wobbled back, retrieved his glass and the bottle of scotch, and wandered after Mycroft.

The younger man had his pajama bottoms on, but was making very heavy weather of his pajama top when Lestrade joined him.

“They didn’t put in enough button holes,” he said, a bit anxiously. “I don’t know what the country is coming to. Standards just aren’t what they used to be.” He tugged forlornly at the large shell button by his waist. “There’s not enough holes.” He thought a moment, and added, “Or too many buttons.”

“Bit of a deal, that, if it’s too many buttons,” Lestrade pointed out. “All you need and one for extra, yeah?”

“But it doesn’t come out even,” Mycroft fretted. He tugged at the button, and looked up. “It’s a button, you know,” he continued. “Not a kiss. I always that it was very stupid of Peter not to know a button from a kiss. But, then, it’s a children’s story. Most children’s stories include quite a lot of stupid things.” He considered some more, and said, softly, “I thought it was completely idiotic, until Sherlock got old enough for it. Did you know Sherlock is _just like Peter Pan?_ ” He nodded, a solemn—though certainly not sober—owl peering up at Lestrade. “Sherlock and Peter can’t either of them see that much difference between fighting pirates and being pirates. And they both crow quite dreadfully.”

“That’s right, they do,” Lestrade said, considering. “More scotch?”

“The bottle’s empty,” Mcyroft pointed out.

“They don’t put enough in those bottles.”

“No, they don’t. But…I’m too tired to get another,” Mycroft said. He looked at the button again. “It doesn’t come out even,” he mourned.

“Here, let me,” Lestrade said, and unbuttoned and rebuttoned, him. “There. Now, I’m supposed to look at your eyes.”

Mycroft tipped his head and opened his lids. “Like this?”

“Mmmm.” Lestrade frowned. “I think they’re the same size.”

“Good. Then I’m not concussed.”

“No, you are concussed, you’re just not bad concussed,” Lestrade assured him.

“Does that mean I can sleep now?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Mycroft said, and seemed to insinuate himself under the covers and roll into a ball with the sinuous flex of a grass snake.

Lestrade smiled. “I’ll be back later to check you.”

“Mmmm,” Mycroft hummed, and sighed contentedly.

Lestrade padded to the guest bedroom, stripped, and showered, grabbing a soft cotton bathrobe from the back of the door. He collected his own clothes and headed through the dark flat toward the utility room. He was reluctant to turn on the lights. His eyes hurt, his head hurt, the glare was going to hurt—and Mycroft as asleep. Lestrade didn’t want light leaking under the door to wake the other man up—he needed his rest, poor thing.

He shouldn’t have even been on that loading platform, he thought, as he gathered the clothes from the hamper and loaded them into the washer. He groped until he found a box filled with what appeared to be wash soap. He tipped some into the machine and started it going, then headed back to his room, setting the alarm in his phone for two hours from then.

He slept, easily, deeply, and in comfort. He woke unwillingly. Mycroft growled fiercely on being woken, and had to be scolded before he’d sit up and open his eyes long enough for Lestrade to check him. By the limited light cast by Lestrade’s mobile phone they discussed possible other symptions. Lestrade tipped out the various pain medicines they’d both been prescribed, and they took them with a water in Mycroft’s toothbrush glass.

“Gotta change the wash over,” he had muttered. “Won’t have a thing to wear tomorrow if I don’t.”

‘I’d lend you something.”

“Too big.”

“I’ve been dieting,” Mycroft assured him, comfortingly. “It shouldn’t be too bad.”

Lestrade had chuckled. “Nah, you’re a good two-inch on me, and it’s all leg. Gimme a mo’, I’ll just change over and be back.”

He’d moved the clothes from the washer to the dryer and returned. “Two more hours and I check you again,” he’d said, setting the phone alarm.”

“Mmmm,” Mycroft said, then, without uncurling from his fetal knot, he’d flapped one hand gently on the far side of the big mattress, and said, “You can stay. Easier than back and forth.” Then he’d drifted, not quite snoring, utterly relaxed.

Lestrade had grunted, and given in.

Twice he’d woken long enough to poke Mycroft awake and check his condition. Twice he’d fallen asleep again without leaving the bed.

Come morning, though, it all came crashing in on him.

The horrible non-bust. The injuries. The hospital. The decision to go to Mycrofts. The booze—oh, _GOD,_ the booze!

His head still hurt. His eyes hurt. His eyelashes hurt. He couldn’t even tell how much was his cold, how much tension, how much delayed effects of being gassed—and how much was being hungover to a degree he’d not experienced since…when?

He’d had a hangover a time or two at the time of the divorce, but not this bad.

He had to remember back to distant pub-crawls of his late teens to properly remember a hangover of this magnitude.

And then Mycroft snored, and curled contentedly into the curve of Lestrade’s back, and Lestrade panicked.

Clothes. He wanted his clothes. His clothes were—where? Utility room. Laundry. He’d dumped his very cheap, very durable wash and wear Marks and Spencer suit into the laundry.

He was off the mattress and moving almost instantly, and it would have all been just fine if he hadn’t actually looked in the dryer, but had instead fished his own jacket and trousers and shirt out by touch, as he often did. Unfortunately he had looked in—and looking, he’d felt the world crashing down around his shoulders.

He sighed, looking down at the ruined suit.

It had been a beautiful suit, he thought. Of course, all Mycroft’s suits were beautiful, but this one had been nice enough he’d particularly noticed it the night before. A light color—so characteristic of Mcyroft in a good mood. There had been tiny flecks of turquoise blue and teal threaded through the heavier pale wool—just tiny threads in a sea of sand-and-biscuit colors. It had been tailored to a fare-thee-well, a bit loose and dashing, almost more country than city-wear.

He could hear Mycroft stirring in the other room, and his stomach fell. Not that Mycroft didn’t have more suits, and not that he couldn’t afford to replace one—but that was hardly the point. Lestrade had just laundered a bespoke suit into oblivion. Beyond oblivion.

He heard Mycroft go to the head. Heard him flush, run the water, and come back. Heard him shuffle down to the kitchen and start tea water. Heard him come back up the hall, check the spare bedroom—then arrive at the door of the utility room.

Lestrade sighed, and raised one matted, felted, lumpy, ruined bit of fabric. “It’s dead, Jim.”

Mycroft leaned in the door and looked down, bemused. “You’ve checked it with your tricorder, I assume?”

Lestrade risked looking up, feeling a little smile grow. “You know your technobabble.”

Mycroft snerked. “Really, Lestrade, there weren’t that many role models for a bright young man in our youths. Spock was a godsend.” He squatted down, the knees of his cotton pajamas stretching tight, the skirt of his silk bathrobe draping over his thighs. He poked the remains of the suit with one long, well-manicured finger. “It does seem to be entirely deceased,” he conceded.

“Deader than a redshirt in Klingon crossfire,” Lestrade agreed, forlornly. “Sorry. If I’d been sober or half awake or the lights had been on I wouldn’t have done it.  I’ll buy you a new one,” L:estrade said, even as his mind raced frantically over his budget, trying to work out when and how he could set aside what was almost certainly a thousand pounds or more to replace what was a work of hand crafted art.

Mycroft studied Lestrade, his face an enigma. After a moment he said, “How offended are you going to be when I refuse your generous offer?”

Lestrade turned his head to look at the man. His face was calm and slightly amused, as though there was a smile waiting in the wings, ready to come on stage, its light shining out in advance of its actual entrance. Lestrade closed his eyes.

“You bastard. You’re not hung over—are you?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I have a ridiculous metabolism. And every time I woke up during the night I drank a glass of water. It helps.”

Lestrade glowered—more for show than real anger, but there was the principle of the thing to be considered. “That’s just not fair. And your cold seems to be better.”

“No….just somewhat recovered from the tear gas, I’m afraid. May I assume you will not begin a blood feud that will entangle our two families for generations if I turn down your kind offer of replacing the suit?”

Lestrade rose, every joint in his body creaking. The room swung giddily around, and he clutched the battered, felted suit to his chest with one hand as he grabbed for the edge of the washer with the other. “Do you deal with that kind of problem often?”

“It depends on a number of variables,” Mycroft said. The hand not strapped with bandages gripped Lestrade’s arm and steadied him. “I’ve found that in many of the places where honor and blood feuds are most of concern, the offer of a goat or two in compensation for the insult can at least wash away the more trivial offenses.” He led Lestrade out into the hall, then down to the kitchen. Then he settled the older man firmly at the table, and poured out tea-water into an already prepared mug that he set before his guest. “So—if I offer you two milch goats will you forgive me the insult?”

“Keep the goats,” Lestrade said, and sucked down half the mug of tea with frantic enthusiasm. When the sugar and milk and wet and tea-flavor hit, scorching down his throat and pooling in his belly, he sighed with relief. “God, I’d forgive you for that alone.” He breathed out, in, out—then poured the remaining half-mug straight down his gullet. He stuck his mug out. “Please, sir, can I have some more?”

Mycroft snorted, swatted his shoulder with the back of his hand, then proceeded to build another mug of tea, an d one for himself. “You’re easily bribed.”

“London coppers can’t choose to be too picky. Aim too high, and toffs like you haul us off in chains for abuse of our office. Aim too low and some granny mistakes us for cockroaches and sends the pest control around. Cuppa with milk and sugar is about all I dare risk in bribes.”

Mycroft’s lips curled up at the corners, and his eyes laughed, even if the rest of his face was still. “A wit! You’re wasted in the Met.”

“Ah, but in MI5 I’m the star of the open mic comedy nights.” Lestrade drank a few sips of the mug, more slowly now, and then leaned over, fiercely massaging his scalp as he tried to work out the sinus congestion and the tension and the throbbing pain of the hangover.

“Here, allow me,” Mycroft said. His fingers were long, and strong, and he appeared to know what he was doing.

“Fuck me, that’s good,” Lestrade sighed, as the other man worked his way from the front hairline to the tendons in his nape. “God. What’s the secret?”

“A sujperb understanding of anatomy, mainly. I’m not as morbid as Sherlock, but—it’s proven advantageous on occasion.”

Lestrade, considering Mycroft’s standing in MI6, found himself wondering what black-ops ninja adventures the man had experienced. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, though the thoughts added a frisson of excitement to the already glorious relief. “Bleh,” he said after a few minutes. “Sinuses are all running like the Thames, now.”

Mycroft sighed. “You’re sick, Lestrade.”

“Nah, just flu.”

“Lestrade—do I have to bully you the way you bullied me last night?” Mycroft came around from behind, and glowered down at him.

They considered each other. After a moment, Lestrade said, uncertainly, “I don’t think I’m that sick.”

“If you were at your flat, would you call in?”

He considered. Cold. After effects of tear gas. Up half the night checking on another man’s concussion. Waking up to the ruined suit. He sighed. “Yeah. Ok. I’d call in, crawl deeper in the sack, and hope I could sleep my way out of this bug.”

“Exactly.”

“Yeah, but I’m not home.”

“No, you’re here at mine—because you’re checking my concusion.”

“Pretty much past the danger point now,” Lestrade pointed out.

“Subdural bleeding can be slow to show up,” Mycroft said, primly. “More tea?”

“God, yeah.”

“How do you like your eggs?”

“Anything but raw?”

“Scrambled with buttered toast on the side?”

“You do know you’ll make someone a great wife?”

“If you don’t mind me working outside the home.”

“Hey, extra income.”

They smiled, then, both unsure where they were going, but absurdly pleased to be going there together for the time being.

Breakfast was delicious. The tea was hot. Both men took their painkillers, and then topped them off with cold formula. Mycroft raided the supply closet and retrieved boxes of tissues. He offered Lestrade a tablet computer, but Lestrade just grumbled that if he had one he’d just work.

“What do you want me to do with the suit?” Lestrade asked, sheepishly.

“Leave it,” Mycroft said.

Neither commented when, walking down the hall, Mycroft ushered Lestrade back into the bedroom without pause.

Hours later, as Lestrade drifted in and out of sleep on his side of Mycroft’s mattress, he said, again, “Sorry about the suit. Really, I feel awful.”

Mycroft, his reading glasses half up his nose, feeling a sense of home he hadn’t experienced in decades, smiled. “Don’t think twice. The collateral benefits outweigh any loss.”

Which, given it was a custom piece by a very exclusive tailor, and would cost almost three thousand pounds to replace, was saying something indeed….

 


End file.
